


never and a day

by newamsterdam



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Antagonism, Forced Cooperation, Intrigue, M/M, Magic, Marriage, Politics, Rivals to Lovers, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: The room around him is fuzzy, the face of his lover even more so. But within an instant, things come into focus. And then, the only possible thing that Ferdinand von Aegir can do is scream bloody murder.Several things happen within the course of a few seconds. First, the person lying in bed with him opens cloudy, lamplight green eyes. Second, the person immediately lurches backwards, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor with athunk. Third, Ferdinand attempts to pull back, himself, but his elbow catches on something soft, which sends his head snapping back down towards the pillows with a shooting pain running down his neck. Fourth, Ferdinand lets out a mighty curse.“Not a dream,” Ferdinand says, voice faint but certain.“A nightmare,” Hubert von Vestra agrees flatly.When Edelgard turns against the Church, Ferdinand is tortured with indecision. He thinks things cannot get any worse, until a spell sends him to a future where he is Prime Minister of the Adrestian Empire, adviser to Emperor Edelgard, and husband of one Hubert von Vestra. Oh, and Hubert is along for the ride, as well.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 285





	never and a day

**Author's Note:**

> \- this story casts f!byleth as the professor of the black eagle house. the plot follows crimson flower until a few changed plot points that should be apparent.  
> \- no other ships will be present enough to warrant tags, but as they appear in the background i will make note of them.

When you’re running for your life, there’s no time to think about why.

It’s one of the things Ferdinand likes most about battle, actually. As long as you can keep straight who is enemy and who is ally, the only things left to focus on are the movements of your feet and your grip on your weapon. You can let your body take over, motions burned into memory through practice taking over as you head towards your goal— stay alive, and fell as many enemies as stand in your way.

He’s still got the adrenaline of battle coursing through his veins as the small group of them flee Garreg Mach Monastery. It’s almost like he’s still _in_ the battle, his legs sore where they grip his horse to keep him seated, his hands clenched as though still wielding his lance. But the most important point— _keep straight who is enemy and who is ally_ — has become tangled beyond repair.

Dorothea is behind him on his horse, her arms wrapped around his waist. A ways ahead of them, he sees Petra’s pegasus and Caspar’s wyvern flying low. Lindhart is riding with Bernadetta. It’s too dark to read their expressions, to see if the same tangled confusion has overtaken them. Bernadetta urges her mount forward, and for a brief moment Ferdinand can see his own face reflected in the metallic shine of her shield.

Ferdinand von Aegier, eldest son of Adrestia’s preeminent noble house, has a bloody and bruised face. He keeps his seat on his horse well enough, but his hair is messy with sweat and blood and grime, plastered against his forehead. The blade of his lance, where it is strapped to his saddle, is dirty with dried blood. His Officers Academy uniform is torn, probably beyond repair.

He lets out a hollow laugh. What does that matter, anyway? They won’t be returning to the Officers’ Academy; after what they’ve done, they’ll never be welcome back there.

“Ferdie, _please_ ,” Dorothea whispers sharply, her grip tightening at his waist. 

He doesn’t quite know what she’s asking of him. Maybe his laughter disturbs her. Her voice is never gentle, with him— not unless she’s mocking him. He never had the chance to get to the bottom of that mystery, about bees and bluster, before now. 

Ferdinand shakes his head and looks around for anything else to focus on. Their professor is at the head of their small train of soldiers, riding beside Edelgard. Or should he think of her as _the Emperor_ , now? 

He’d always known she’d come to the throne one day. But is he just stupid, that he never realized that this is how she’d do it? Is he mad, that he’s chosen to follow her down this path?

Hubert’s absence is conspicuous, especially since he’d been the first to turn to Edelgard’s side at that fateful moment. To him, it was as natural as breathing. Of course, he’d also had foreknowledge. Ferdinand is sour over that, and not ashamed to admit it to himself. Maybe he would’ve been of help, too, if he’d been told _anything_.

They crest a hill just as the sun begins to rise above the horizon. The world is dyed a blush pink, but Ferdinand can’t help but grimace. The sky is the color of water used to wash away blood. 

In the valley below sits an old stone fortress. He recognizes it as Adrestian, even though he couldn’t keep track of which direction they were riding through the night. Now, he is startled to find that they’ve reached the border. Of course, Edelgard wouldn’t be safe anywhere other than her own empire.

Hubert is waiting for them— or, more accurately, for Edelgard— at the gates. Still bloody and worn from battle, himself, he folds one arm over his chest and one behind his back as he bows to the new Emperor. 

“All is prepared,” he says, in his snake’s hiss of a voice.

“Hopefully that includes beds,” the professor replies mildly. “Everyone should get some sleep, before we talk.”

Edelgard looks down the line of them— Petra and Caspar setting down to earth, Lindhart supporting an exhausted Bernadetta, Dorothea easing down from the saddle with no assistance. Is it wishful thinking, that Ferdinand notices her eyes lingering on him? 

“Sleep,” she agrees. “We’ll assemble a counsel this evening.” She pauses for a moment, her lips pursed. As brief as the blush of daybreak, she smiles. “Rest, my friends. I’m glad to have you here.”

She walks into the fortress with her half-cape flowing behind her, red as blood.

Goddess damn her, she really does look like an emperor. And left behind is Ferdinand, in his torn school uniform, looking like just a boy.

He knows he isn’t imagining it when Hubert turns to sneer at him before following Edelgard into the fortress.

—

He cannot sleep. He sheds his torn jacket, splashes cool water over his face to clean it of grime, and then immediately marches his way through the halls. The Adrestian soldiers who are manning the fortress look at him askance, but they helpfully point the way to the professor’s assigned quarters.

Ferdinand himself had been led to a room to be shared with Lindhart and Caspar, though conspicuously not Hubert. Lindhart had fallen to sleep immediately, and Caspar had curled up at his feet like a loyal guard dog. Ferdinand envied them the security that had in one another. 

A noble should only have conviction in his heart, and never uncertainty. But earlier, there had been no time to think. He acted on a deep well of instinct he’d never known he had. If anyone had asked him, even a day ago, who he’d choose between Archbishop Rhea and Imperial Princess Edelgard, he never would have said the latter. It would have been unthinkable.

But it wasn’t a choice between just the two of them. Which is why he needs to see the professor, to ask her how she made the choice Ferdinand is still unsure of. 

He knocks politely on the door, regretting disturbing the professor after such an ordeal. But she answers in a moment, her dark cloak around her shoulders and her hair shining like starlight. 

“Ferdinand,” she says, and were she more expressive Ferdinand might say that she looks surprised. 

“Apologies, Professor,” he says, all in a rush. “It’s just that I need your counsel, perhaps more than I ever have, and I realize that now might not be the best time, but it’s just—”

The professor lays a hand on his shoulder, and Ferdinand stops abruptly. 

“I was just going to meet with Edelgard,” the professor says, dipping her head in apology. “We can talk as long as you like, after.” She tilts her head, a soft smile on her lips. “Maybe we can even find some tea.”

Ferdinand’s heart twinges at the thought. Unprepared to leave the monastery, he’d left his own nearly priceless collection behind. 

The professor nods at him, before walking past him and down the hall towards Edelgard’s rooms. Ferdinand stares after her, very much like a boat adrift at sea.

If he can’t have immediate counsel from the professor, how is he meant to sort out his thoughts? And why does it hurt, like a poked bruise, when she shifts him down the list in favor of Edelgard? 

—

There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to _be_ without feeling that he’s in the way. Their new base of operations is bare— a defensible position, but not much else. The other move about like mice— scurrying across the main floor, gathering in corners, their heads cocking to listen at the slightest noise. 

The professor moves on to meet with Edelgard, and so Ferdinand shoves his way past the main gates and out into the half-cleared forest that surrounds the fortress. He doesn’t have the patience to wait like a mouse for scraps— he has to do something.

His spear is stored with the rest of his gear, but his sword still hangs at his waist. Though not his preferred weapon, the sword has a comfortable weight in his hand as he goes through the training motions. At some point, he abandons the rote exercises and begins sparring with an invisible opponent, jabbing forward as though defeating this spectre will also defeat his self-doubt and misgivings. 

He grips the sword with both hands, lifts it over his head and swings it down with a mighty cry. Sweat beads at his brow, and the force of his swing is such that he lands on his knees. He’s breathing heavily, the bruises from last night’s battle still smarting. He lets out a hollow laugh— but he is interrupted.

Behind him, someone is clapping. The noise of it echoes through the small clearing, light and mocking.

Ferdinand knows it is Hubert watching him before he rises to his feet and turns to face the intruder.

Hubert von Vesta, the one person Edelgard had deigned to reveal her plans to. Or, rather— he probably helped craft those plans, was instrumental to them. He would have been involved at every stage.

“Is there something I can help you with, Hubert?” He doesn’t care that he snaps, his normally courteous attitude all but gone. It’s Hubert, after all; courtesy hardly has any effect on him.

Hubert, leaning against a tree with his arms folded across his chest, sneers. “I’m sure you wish you could, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand opens his mouth, immediately snaps it shut again. He almost wants to list his victories from last night, the soldiers he’d slain and the unforgiving odds he’d fought against. But his opponents had been Adrestian soldiers, and he still doesn’t know how to sort that detail out. Especially when he’d immediately turned to stand at Edelgard’s side, afterward.

“Nothing to say?” Hubert continues, voice as slick as water rushing over stones. “I must admit, seeing you here is jarring. I thought you’d stick to your own ideals until the last.”

Ferdinand’s expression pulls into a glare before he can stop it. “I _do_ stick to my ideals. I always have, and I always will. Better that than be like you, letting someone else decide the entire course of your life.”

Hubert adopts a crooked smile, shaking his head. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. From where I’m standing, it is I who has the benefit of conviction. All you seem to be good for is tilling at ghosts.”

Ferdinand’s fingers clench around the hilt of his sword. “Why are you _here_ , Hubert?”

The other man blinks, pale green eyes coming in and out of view like flickering lamplights. “Funnily enough, it is to ask you that very question.”

He takes a step back. Count on Hubert to find the most tender of his bruises and poke at it directly. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ferdinand snaps. “Why would anyone be here, if they didn’t believe in this cause?”

Hubert steps forward, his shadow following. He’s still dressed in his uniform, too, but someone he already carries himself like a lord, like an advisor, like a spymaster. Perhaps because he has been all these things for months, and even years, at his point. All while Ferdinand has only played at knighthood and nobility.

“Why indeed,” Hubert drawls. “Could it be that a young lord, so enamored of noble ideals, sees this as an opportunity to make a name for himself with the Church of Seiros? That in a split second, you saw the opportunity to embed yourself as a spy, and took it?”

The idea is foriegn, so implausible, that Ferdinand tips his head back and laughs. “Are you so wrapped up in your own deceits that you’ll project them onto anyone else to vindicate your paranoia? _You_ have always been the spy, not me.”

Hubert steps closer, so that there is only a few feet between them. “True enough. And because of that, I have thought about every possible angle of loyalty that each of you may have. It is my job to question your motives, to assume that your oaths are false, to make sure that nothing and no one keeps Lady Edelgard from the future she has given so much for.”

Does he talk about her like she’s his lover, or a goddess herself? Of the two thoughts, the blasphemous one is the less distasteful. 

“And you plan to win a war that way?” Ferdinand shakes his head in disbelief. “You realize that by raising arms against Rhea, you’ve antagonized nearly the entire continent. You’re probably facing civil war in Adrestia at the least, to say nothing of the Alliance and the Kingdom bringing their power down to bear on Edelgard’s _future_. And even so, you’d question the people who have chosen to openly side with you? You’re more a fool that I’d thought, Hubert— and to be clear, I have always thought you a _great_ fool.”

Hubert’s waxy pallor turns an unattractive red. He steps forward, finally uncrossing his arms to let them fall to his sides, hands clenched. The dark shadows of miasma bloom from his gloved fingertips. 

“I can believe such decisive, principled action from the lot of them. Even Bernedetta, skittish as she is, has more than enough reason to turn against the decrepit old order and side with Lady Edelgard. But you— _you_.” He spits the final world, like a stray bone from a mouthful of meat. 

“What are you trying to say, Hubert? That there is no logical reason for me to side with Edelgard? That I have nothing to gain and everything to lose? Why in the goddess’s name would I need you to remind me of that?” 

“If you admit it so freely, then try and convince me— _why are you here_.” Hubert’s voice goes low and threatening. 

Ferdinand throws his hands in the air, letting his sword clatter to the earth. How can he explain himself to Hubert von Vestra, of all people? When he hasn’t even sorted out his thoughts himself, when he’s not even sure that he wants to be here? 

He knows that Edelgard sees no value in him, barely considers him at all. He knows that the professor, for all he admires her, considers him a weak second to Edelgard. He knows that Hubert will see him as a threat at worst and an annoyance at best. 

So why _is_ he here? Why would he willingly go among those who see no purpose in him? 

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Ferdinand’s voice has risen. “I am _Ferdinand von Aegir_ , and whatever future Edelgard has planned, who I am matters to me if not to anyone else. If you cannot fathom why I am here, then that is your problem, Hubert. Not mine.” 

Hubert growls under his breath. “Nothing you’ve said convinces me that you aren’t here to spy for the Church, or perhaps your friends in the Alliance.”

“So now my crime is having _friends_?” Ferdinand’s laughter takes on a terrible quality— it reminds him of his mother, when she would hear the political gossip of prisoners executed or nobles loyal to the emperor banished. It’s a mad, hysterical sort of laughter. “Forgive me, Hubert. I didn’t realize it was a sore point, that you have none to speak of.”

“You’re a child,” Hubert scoffs.

“You’re a lapdog!” Ferdinand shoots back. 

“You’re _unnecessary_ ,” Hubert hisses. He’s stepped so close that his nose nearly touches Ferdinand’s, his words an icy whisper. “And I am allowing you to live only because it would distress the others if they discovered you with a knife in your back.”

He turns abruptly, as though the conversation is over. But Ferdinand cannot accept that. He lunges forward, grabs Hubert by the shoulder and wrenches him around.

“What do you think you’re—”

“If I come for you, you will see me coming,” Ferdinand says heatedly. “Because unlike you, I have my honor left to me.” He swings his arm back and punches Hubert, then, his knuckles meeting Hubert’s nose and cheek and sending him sprawling to the ground.

Hubert doesn’t bother to get to his feet, just rubs the blood aside with one hand as the other lifts to cast a spell in counter.

Dark shadows surge towards Ferdinand, but before they reach him he is surrounded by the familiar green glow of the Crest of Cichol. The shadows dissipate into nothing.

Hubert spits a glob of blood onto the grass. “Ah yes. Such honor, to rely on the gifts of your blood rather than any actual skill.”

It is an involuntary effect, but Ferdinand won’t condescend to explain that. His heart is thumping against his chest, his body buzzing with an angry energy he doesn’t know what to do with. 

For the first time in Ferdinand’s life, the green glow of his crest does not immediately disperse. Instead, it grows more solid, flashing to blue and purple and then, finally, red.

“ _What are you doing_ —” Hubert scrambles to his feet, reaching for him.

Ferdinand had been about to ask him the same question. Hubert is the mage, of the two of them. But he doesn’t have time to form the thought, because as soon as the light turns red a pain unlike anything Ferdinand has ever felt surges through his body. He screams.

“ _Hubert_! _Ferdinand_!”

Soldiers are spilling out of the fortress, led by the professor. The Sword of the Creator is clutched in her hands, and Edelgard is right at her side. 

His vision darkens suddenly, and Ferdinand lets out another scream. He feels as though he’s being jerked violently backwards, even though he’s sure his feet are still planted on the ground.

When he’s sure the pain will overtake him, when he’s practically hoping that he’ll pass out and this will just end, something reaches out and grabs his wrist, clutching onto him tightly. The grip is so strong that it’s painful, but compared to what he’s already experiencing it is nothing. Somehow, this lesser, more mundane pain gives his mind something to focus on.

Now, at least, the pain won’t drive him mad. 

—

The bed is somewhat softer than the one he’d had at the Academy, but perhaps not as luxurious as the grand four-post he’d had back at the Aegir estate. Still, there’s room enough to lie comfortably, his face buried in the pillows and his legs stretched so that he’s almost diagonal. He wriggles his toes, coming back to his body in slow increments. His legs are tangled with someone else’s. There is an arm draped over his waist. And he can feel the soft _puh-puh-puh_ of someone breathing against the back of his neck, their face very, very close. 

Ferdinand has never laid in bed with someone, before. Even in his most shameless imaginings, he’d never thought of being so perfectly close to someone. So grounded by their presence. So at peace even with the heat, breath, and sensation of another beside him.

If this is a dream, he should like to know the identity of his fantasy lover. So rarely is he graced with such vivid dreams. He twists within his lover’s grasp, squirming until they are face-to-face instead of back-to-front. His nose is almost touching the other person’s. Now he can feel their breath against his lips.

He sighs with contentment, and with no small amount of excitement, he opens his eyes. 

The room around him is fuzzy, the face of his lover even more so. But within an instant, things come into focus. And then, the only possible thing that Ferdinand von Aegir can do is scream bloody murder.

Several things happen within the course of a few seconds. First, the person lying in bed with him opens cloudy, lamplight green eyes. Second, the person immediately lurches backwards, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor with a _thunk_. Third, Ferdinand attempts to pull back, himself, but his elbow catches on something soft, which sends his head snapping back down towards the pillows with a shooting pain running down his neck. Fourth, Ferdinand lets out a mighty curse. Fifth, his fallen lover clamps his hands on the edge of the bed and pulls himself back into view.

“Not a dream,” Ferdinand says, voice faint but certain. 

“A nightmare,” Hubert von Vestra agrees flatly.

—

“That is you, isn’t in, Ferdinand?” Hubert asks. His voice is slightly deeper, like it’s been warmed over coals slowly. And his voice isn’t the only thing that’s different about him. As he pulls himself up, he reveals a body that is taller than Ferdinand remembers; more deliberately musced that Ferdinand imagines Hubert to be, beneath his loose clothes; more worn with scars than Ferdinand expects. 

His hair is cut short, cut in an asymmetrical line over his left eye. Beneath that fringe is a face Ferdinand feels like he’s never seen before.

“You have _cheekbones_!” he shrieks, and his own voice echoes oddly to his ears. Still, who knew that Hubert von Vestra was hiding such a face beneath the shadows and unflattering lob of his dark hair? Who knew that cutting off a few inches could so transform him?

Hubert blinks at him— and yes, that particular expression of irritation is his alone— before letting out a puff of breath. “Most people do.”

“What’s happened to you?” Ferdinand demands. “Why are we— why were _you_ in bed with me? What have you done?”

Hubert glares, his hands clenching at his sides. His fingers are stained black, like he’s dipped them in oversized inkwells. There’s a faint purple tinge where the black fades away to reveal his pale skin. 

“You assume this is my work?” He cocks his head to one side. “And here I thought you didn’t think very well of me.”

“I don’t think of you at all!” Ferdinand sputters, if only because he is sure the same is true in reverse. Edelgard and Hubert had never considered him important, had never thought of him as a valuable ally. And so why would he reveal to Hubert his own preoccupation? 

“Stop shrieking,” Hubert snaps. “At least try to rally some composure. Something is clearly very wrong.”

“Obviously!” Ferdinand hears his voice go high, and deliberately waits for two beats of his own heart before continuing, willing his voice back to a calmer register. “Why should I believe that this isn’t your doing? Why have you taken on such a— why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” Hubert snaps. He turns, giving Ferdinand a sudden view of his ass. He barely notices, walking away from the bed and towards a well-stocked vanity. The mirror fixed into the wall reveals Hubert’s thinner face, his shorn hair, the new lines around his green eyes. If he is surprised, it shows for only a moment before he clenches his fists and pulls himself back under control. “So it’s both of us, then,” he mutters, more to himself than to Ferdinand. “We are both… changed.”

Ferdinand pulls his gaze from the small of Hubert’s back, snapping to attention. He rolls off the bed and pushes Hubert away from the vanity, panic striking through him until he finally sees himself in the mirror. 

It is, without any doubt, his own face. He stretches his jaw, forces a smile to reveal the dimples he’s had since infancy. But it looks as though a sculptor has robbed him of all soft edges, refining his face into something more angular, more elegant. His hair, a tone between copper and tawny, has grown well past his shoulders. It has the ghost of a curl to it, something he’d never noticed when it was cut short. He is as nude as Hubert, and across his chest are ferocious scars that have gone pale pink and white with age. His skin is otherwise tanned, freckles dotted across his shoulders and the bridge of his nose.

“...we’re older,” he realizes. “Have I gone quite mad, or wasn’t I eighteen a moment ago?”

Hubert rests his chin against his blackened fingers. “It shouldn’t be possible.”

“Something has _happened_ , Hubert!” Ferdinand turns in place, taking Hubert’s shoulders and shaking them. “If this isn’t your doing, it’s certainly your area of expertise! What dark magic is this?”

Hubert shoves him away with a look of distaste. His gaze goes up and down Ferdinand’s body, lingering at his waist and the spot where his hair drapes over his chest. He scoffs. 

“It’s Faith that acts on the body, not Reason,” he mutters. “Aging someone seems the opposite of healing, but perhaps it’s the same principle. Either way, I know nothing about magic that steals life—”

He breaks off suddenly, his face blanching to a green-tinged shade of white. 

“What?” Ferdinand steps forward as though to shake him, again. “What is it?”

“It’s them,” Hubert murmurs. His voice has gone distant. “But why would they— we’ve made no move against them—”

“Who is _they_?” Ferdinand hates that he has to keep asking questions. He knows precious little about magic, only some basic Faith skills that amount to battlefield medicine. He regrets not asking the Professor for more lessons in both Reason and Faith, now. He doesn’t want to be at the mercy of the information Hubert is willing to share.

“Your crest,” Hubert says suddenly, eyes narrowing. “Your crest activated, and then this happened.”

Ferdinand lets out a hollow laugh. “You’ve seen my crest activate a hundred times, and never has it been like _this_! Don’t be a fool, Hubert.”

Hubert’s chest heaves with heavy breaths. He pushes past Ferdinand and begins examining the room, tossing the sheets back onto the bed to get a closer look. 

“What are you doing?” Ferdinand asks. 

Hubert ignores him, making a circuit of the room. It’s a bedchamber, clearly enough, with the massive bed that was more than large enough for the two of them. Ferdinand tries not to think of the position they’d woken in, or why. Aside from the vanity, there’s a door leading to a small washroom, a desk in one corner before the window, and an oaken wardrobe. Pieces of armor and weaponry— a set of greaves, a couple of sheathed swords— lean up against the wardrobe. 

“Someone lives here,” Ferdinand says helpfully.

Hubert looks up from digging through the wardrobe. His flat expression shows just how thin his patience has grown.

“I’m trying to help!” Ferdinand can’t help but be indignant. 

A pair of trousers come flying at him, and it is only by reflex that Ferdinand catches them.

“You can _help_ by getting dressed, and shutting up,” Hubert says. He’s pulling other garments from the wardrobe— undergarments, black pants, a crisp navy blue shirt. He dresses efficiently, tucking his pants into sleek black boots. 

Ferdinand stalks over to the wardrobe, finding it split oddly— about two-thirds of the items are bright with color: crimson, navy, a stark white, a rich purple. The remainder are uniformly black. 

He pulls out a white shirt and red coat, doing up his buttons as quickly as he can. The garments are exquisitely tailored, and fit him perfectly. 

“Do you think… this is _my_ room?” Ferdinand asks. He reaches for the greaves, slotting them over his legs and finding them another perfect fit. The swords are of the sort he favors in battle, not the show-pieces they wore at the Officers’ Academy. 

Hubert looks up from slipping on a pair of white gloves. “What?”

“I was sleeping here, and the clothes fit me… I don’t know where we are, but it feels as though this room was prepared with me in mind.”

“Then it has all the hallmarks of a trap,” Hubert snaps. He adds, somewhat spitefully, “And we’re in Enbarr. Are you blind, as well as dumb?”

“How could you possibly know that?” Ferdinand demands.

Hubert laughs without humor. “This is the imperial palace, you idiot. And not the wing of guest rooms, but somewhere close to the government chambers. We’re within a rock’s throw of the imperial residence.”

“Well, how on earth would I know that?” Ferdinand sputters. He can count the number of times he’s been to the imperial capital on his fingers, and those visits did not include an inventoried tour of each room of the palace.

“Perhaps if you paid attention to anything but your own ego,” Hubert says mildly. He buttons a black coat up over his navy blue shirt. There is a heavy black cape draped over the chair at the writing desk, and this he claims as well. Fastening it over his shoulders, he pauses at the desk and begins rifling through its contents.

“What are you doing _now_?” Ferdinand demands.

Hubert turns suddenly, his cape following him like a shadow. He comes at Ferdinand suddenly, grabbing his neck in one hand and pressing the other over Ferdinand’s mouth.

Perhaps Ferdinand really is the greater fool, between them. Because for all of their animosity, he’d still considered Hubert an ally. He’d never thought to defend himself against the man. 

So much more the fool is he, he thinks with a weak laugh. He feels the the terrifying pressure of Hubert’s grip against his neck, and then the world goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> i am so excited to get this story going, and i would love to know what you think! 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/newamsterdame)


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